


Hounds From Hell

by CarefulFearAndDeadDevotion



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (like sloooooooow burn), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Neighbor feud, Neighbors, Slow Burn, rated teens and up for occasional vulgar language, sort of, there are puppies involved in this fic, they r cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7383835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarefulFearAndDeadDevotion/pseuds/CarefulFearAndDeadDevotion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ian and his puppies get a new neighbor, they aren't too happy about the marijuana smoke that wafts into their apartment every day. When Mickey Milkovich moves into a New York City apartment, he isn't too happy that his neighbor's dogs keep him up every night. The solution? Write passive aggressive notes to each other. The outcome? Different than they expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hounds From Hell

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this](http://theinturnetexplorer.tumblr.com/post/131774912016/well-that-neighbor-feud-took-an-amusing-turn) tumblr post about a cute little neighbor feud. i started this fic a while ago and picked it back up last week, i hope you like it. 
> 
> disclaimer: i know virtually nothing about baseball. the minimal knowledge i have of it is whatever i learned when i played softball in 6th grade, excuse any mistakes (and possibly tell me about them)  
> disclaimer #2: i haven't watched shameless in a while, and if the characters are kinda OoC please let me know and i'll try to fix it

When Ian Gallagher had moved to (ran away to) New York, he never imagined he could feel lonely. But there he was, just turned twenty, living in a city of almost ten million people, celebrating his birthday with a six pack of beer and reruns of a show he didn’t even know the name of. That’s how he found himself in a dog shelter, stashed between a convenience store and a pub, falling in love with every dog he laid his eyes on. It was an hour later when the bored teenager behind the counter muttered that they were gonna close in 15 minutes. And that was when Ian spotted them: three German Shepherd puppies rolling around in the corner of a tiny cage. It was fireworks and floating hearts when, as he approached them, they stopped playing and looked at him, heads cocked to one side and ears perked.

* * *

 

Six months later, he gets a new neighbor.  He never actually sees the guy, but the smell of weed that somehow finds its way to Ian’s apartment twice a day and the erratic shouts of “shut those fucking dogs up” provide all the proof he needs.  Further confirmation comes weeks later in the form of a note under his door. It’s well past midnight and Ian has just come home from a shift at the club. The alcohol still hasn’t worn off, so, when he goes to unlock his door, he drops his keys instead.  As he’s fumbling for his keys on the floor, his hand brushes across a piece of paper. He stashes the note in his pocket and opens the door. Flicking a light on, he pulls the note out and reads it out loud to Bear, who had just ran up to greet him.

“Dear 402, your dogs woke me up every night this week,’” he slurs. Looking at the drawing of Mickey Mouse giving him the finger, he continues, “Please silence your hounds from hell. Regards, 403.” Ian laughs and throws the note on his kitchen table. He reminds himself to come up with a response later. He bends down to pet Bear and goes to bed.

He wakes up three hours later to the stifling smell of weed. Cursing under his breath, he tosses off his covers and stalks to the kitchen to grab a pen and a piece of paper. With his three dogs sitting around him he writes his response:

“403, I think it’s all the marijuana smoke coming from your apartment that’s waking and baking them. Sod off, 402,” he writes, reading out loud. He draws a GI slicing Mickey’s head off with a sword for good measure and then runs across the hall to slide the note into his neighbor’s place. He bangs on the door and runs back to his apartment, locking the door behind him.

Ian snickers into his hand and watches through the peephole as his neighbor slams his door open. Their schedules made it so that they had never run into each other in the three months they’d shared a roof. Now, giddy from the budding neighbor feud and what is quite possibly a second-hand high, Ian gets his first look at the man who has been bullying his puppies.  His breath catches in his throat as he takes in the dark hair and blue eyes, the compact frame and restless limbs.

He knows this guy.

He had narrowly avoided a beating from this guy.

* * *

 

Ian knows it’s been years since he’s lived in Chicago—years since being in the closet nearly cost him his life—but he can’t help the way his stomach clenches in fear and anticipation whenever he catches a glimpse of dark hair around a corner. Ian knows that it’s unlikely that Mickey remembers him—even more unlikely that he’s still mad about what happened with Mandy—but if he tweaks his schedule to completely avoid running into Mickey that’s nobody’s business but his own.

Ian, though, is still the only one who knows they share more than a knack for passive-aggressive notes and aggressive doodles. So, the resentment Mickey harbors for him is still only related to his dogs and their feud rages on without hiccups.

A few days later, Ian is coming back from walking his dogs when he sees another note—the third one that week—tacked to his door.  Ian rips the piece of paper off his door and, with more effort than he’d expected, leads his dogs inside their home.  When he’s made sure Bear, Bella, and Beast have enough water and food, he sits at the kitchen table and reads the note.

A gory version of Mickey Mouse holding his severed head stands in front of a note reading “Apartment Rules! No fat dogs.” The message, in Mickey’s careful scrawl, reads, “Trump Card: Observe this apartment’s 50 lb. pet weight restriction. Your dogs have broken the fat sound barrier.” He hadn’t bothered signing the note, an informal gesture that hints at the familiarity of the ongoing feud. Ian allows himself a moment to feel offended on behalf of his dogs (sure, they‘re big, but only because they’re healthy and growing German Shepherds!) but then his heart stops in his chest.

How could Mickey possibly know how big his dogs are when he’s never let them leave the apartment without him? Ian knows that the answer to that question is that Mickey has seen him _and_ the dogs, but he deflates in relief when he realizes that Mickey hasn’t recognized him. Why else would he still be participating in this quasi-friendly feud without knocking Ian’s door down and demanding retribution? Plus, he tells himself, his knowledge of physics and the sound barrier starts and stops at knowing they’re somehow related.  Ian was never good at physics.

Ian calls for take-out and goes to take a shower, happy that he won’t have to give up the safety he feels in this city just yet.

* * *

 

Thirty minutes later, as Ian is trying to figure out what to watch, the doorbell rings. He jogs to the door, hungry and still wet from his shower, and swings it open, grinning. On the other side of the door is decidedly not the fifty-something balding man that usually delivers Ian his BBQ’d ribs. The guy in front of Ian is young—maybe a little older than him—and cute. Very cute, Ian decides, as the guy blinks his huge brown eyes at him.

“Stare much?” The guy grins at Ian, holding out the hand that’s not busy holding his food. “I’m Alejandro, the new delivery guy.”

“Talk about a trade-up,” Ian mumbles, taking the food from him. Alejandro stops grinning as the smell of weed hits them both.

He wrinkles his nose in disgust and says, “Dude, what the hell? How much weed have you been smoking?”

“It’s not me.” Ian frowns, nodding his head towards Mickey’s door, “It’s him. I’ve had to deal with this for the past four months.” He turns back into his apartment and places the food on his coffee table. Alejandro, surprisingly, follows him. “You always invite yourself into your clients’ homes?” he asks, but doesn’t tell him to leave.

He grins back at him and says, “Only if they’re cute and if my shift’s over.  Anyway, why don’t you report him to your landlord?”

 Ian hadn’t really thought of that; back in the South Side there wasn’t much room for snitching. Everyone had something illegal going on under their roof so calling the authorities was usually a lose/lose situation. Plus, if he were to report him, he would have to speak to Mickey. Or at least be in the same room as him. He’s not willing to risk it. 

“Trust me; we have more productive ways of dealing with our complaints.” He shows Alejandro Mickey’s note and tells him about the feud.

 Alejandro laughs a great big laugh, taking Ian by surprise. “What?” Ian furrows his brow, sort of offended at the outburst. “What’s so funny?”

“You guys are ridiculous! I can’t believe this.” He laughs his huge laugh again. Ian’s frown deepens but then, “I have to help you write an answer. I _need_ to be involved in this.”

Alejandro, already at home in the tiny apartment, sits on Ian’s couch, props his legs up on the coffee table, and starts spooning rice into his mouth. “Can I get you a fork? Maybe a plate? Some manners?” Ian asks, amused.   

“No, thank you,” he mumbles around the food. Ian grabs two plates and two forks and sits next to him on the couch. “So, show me this note again,” he says.

After a careful reading, Alejandro grabs a discarded piece of a paper and a pen. Ian watches over his shoulder as he writes, “Mexican Standoff” in block letters. He turns to Ian and tells him that he’s not Mexican but “Colombian/Peruvian Standoff” doesn’t have the same ring nor the same standing in pop culture. Ian laughs and he goes back to writing.  He draws Mickey Mouse holding a bong in a thought bubble above the GI’s head and writes “Apartment Rules! NO WEED” on the flier in his hand.  Alejandro sits back and surveys the room. Noticing the Cubs hat hanging from the corner of the TV, he draws it on the GI’s head.  

“Perfect.”

“Thanks for the help,” Ian says, and then walks across the hall to slip the note soundlessly under Mickey’s door.    

“So, what are we watching?” Alejandro asks him when Ian sits back down on the couch. Neither of them find it odd that they’re complete strangers when Alejandro asks this. Nor did they find it odd when he invited himself into Ian’s house. Nor when he asks, two hours later, if he can crash on Ian’s couch.  

* * *

 

 

Ian wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache, a bad taste in his mouth, and his arm draped across Alejandro’s stomach. They’re lying on the floor, beer cans and pillows everywhere. Alejandro wakes up with a start and sits up.  He takes in their position and the mess around them.

“Did we--”

Ian shakes his head. “You kissed me and then started laughing. Something about ‘this is too much like kissing my brother’? Thought it was too early for you to think of me as your brother but I’m flattered anyway.”

Alejandro laughs—Ian swears it’s the most contagious laugh he’s ever witnessed—and then asks when the last time he had homemade pancakes was. Ian doesn’t know. It’s been more than four years since he came to New York and his last months in Chicago are kind of fuzzy.  He does know, however, that he’s starving. Alejandro takes his silence as a sign that it’s been too long and starts looking through Ian’s cabinets for ingredients.     

While Alejandro is cooking, Ian goes downstairs to get his mail. Walking back up, he stops short as he sees a young guy knocking on Mickey’s door. Ducking out of view, he watches as Mickey opens the door and _kisses_ the guy on the other side. Of all the things he’s seen in his life, he’d have never expected to see Mickey Milkovich openly kissing a guy.  

When he tells Alejandro, he laughs and says, “Well now you won’t have to worry about him beating you up because you’re gay, but just because he thinks you fucked his sister.”

Ian glares at him. “That is _so_ not funny.”

“Oh, come on, just a little bit.”

“Shut up, and give me my pancakes.”

* * *

 

It’s a couple of days before the World Series begin when Ian gets a new note. Mickey has chosen to abandon all animosity, apparently, because this one reads:

“Wait, you’re a CUBS fan? … in NYC? Truce. Wanna come to my place on Saturday to watch the game? I’ll bake deep dish pizza (stoner). You can even bring your hounds from hell.” To make his point clear, he drew a picture of Mickey holding a Cubs flag, and a deep dish pizza and a bowl with dog treats by his feet.

Ian, both happy about the revelation that Mickey’s a Cubs fan and apprehensive about the prospect of seeing him face to face, calls Alejandro to relay the news.

“Umm, I’m working, Ian.”

“You picked up though.”

“Unimportant. What do you want?”

Ian tells him about the note and about his uncertainty on how to reply, if at all.

“What’s to debate here?” Alejandro asks as soon as Ian’s done explaining. “You both love the Cubs (for some impossible reason), he’s cute, single—“

“Single?”

“Oh yeah, I deliver to his ex. Needless to say two-timing piece of shit is not Mickey’s type.” Ian frowns at the news.  “And,” Alejandro continues, “I’m sure if you explain what happened with Mandy he’ll understand.”

Ian scoffs. “Then you don’t know Mickey Milkovich.”

Alejandro sighs and Ian can picture him rubbing his face in exasperation. “Trust me, Ian. And, if anything goes wrong, I’ll come and share the beating.”

Ian laughs as he pictures a five foot seven Mickey trying to hit the much taller Alejandro. Though, Ian’s seen Mickey take down bigger and tougher guys than Alejandro, who grew up on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary,” he says.

“So, what’re you gonna do?”

Ian hums in response and hangs up the phone.

Ian thinks, and thinks, but he still can’t decide what to do. Alejandro made good points, but fear’s hard-ingrained into him. New York is much more forgiving than the South Side but that doesn’t mean that a move out East changed Mickey. Though, if the public display of affection was any indication, Mickey could have moved here looking to get away from his unforgiving family. But, Mickey had more than a little inclination for beating up gay kids back in Chicago; the fact that he’s out now does little to dissuade Ian’s fear even though he knows it should.

Ian’s watching TV when he decides that he can’t let fear rule him. He doesn’t want to give up the safety of the city but interacting with Mickey doesn’t mean he’s gonna have to.  Fear is just another cage, and Ian’s too familiar with those. His life has been too full of restrictions and Ian’s tired. He owes it to himself to see this through. Before he can change his mind, he drafts a response.

“I’ll bring the beers and dogs! Go Cubbies,” he writes. He draws that same GI with the Cubs cap, a dog on his shoulder, and a six pack of beer in his hands. He sits back and breathes out. When he’s sure Mickey’s not home—he has made his peace with the situation, but that doesn’t mean he wants Mickey to see him before he has to—he slips the note into his apartment.

“I did it,” he tells Alejandro over the phone. “I told him I’d watch the game with him.”

“I’ll come over tomorrow in case you need me,” he answers.

* * *

 

  The next afternoon, Alejandro and Ian are sitting around the apartment, waiting for when Ian has to go to Mickey’s. Alejandro had arrived at the crack of dawn, so that Ian woke up to a clean apartment and a home cooked breakfast. In the short time he’s known him, Alejandro has become one of the most important people in his life and he is glad to have him around. When it’s almost time for Ian to go to Mickey’s, Alejandro fusses over his appearance the way a parent would a child’s. Ian bats his hands away, but laughs.

“Call me if you need me,” Alejandro calls as Ian is about to leave the house.  “I’ll be right here.”

“Got it.”

And then, “Wait! Do you need anything?”

“I’m good.” He’s almost out the door.

 “Ian—“

“What now, _mother_?” he turns, fixing Alejandro with an exasperated glare.   

Uncharacteristically serious, he says, “I just wanna make sure you’re okay. I know I convinced you to do this but if you really don’t think you can, don’t.  If this guy is really as bad as you say don’t put yourself in danger.”

Ian smiles at him. “I’ll be fine.”

Alejandro’s confident grin is back now. “Damn right you’ll be fine,” he says.  “I’ll be right outside the door, ready to kick his ass!”

Ian laughs. “Ale, I really don’t think that’ll be necessary…..or possible” And then he’s laughing again and Alejandro acts offended for a second but then joins in and then Ian really is fine. He thanks him and then exits the apartment. Alejandro stands at the door, ready to intervene. Ian takes a deep breath and knocks. He waits one second, two, at the third, the door swings open. 

  

When Mickey sees him, he takes a visible step back, grins. “Ian fucking Gallagher, all the way in fucking New York City.”

* * *

 

“You gonna keep standing there?” Mickey asks, bouncing a little on his toes.

“What?”

“Are you going to come in?” Mickey rephrases the question, enunciating each word. “Did you hit your head on your way over here, Gallagher?” he asks when Ian still hasn’t moved.

Ian shakes himself out of it. “Sorry I just—“

“—thought I was gonna bash your brains in?” Mickey finishes, amused. “I’m a new man, Gallagher.”

Ian eyes him slowly. This feels like a trap, Mickey lulling him into a false sense of security before pouncing. Like a lion and a gazelle. Ian does not like being the gazelle. Finally, he realizes they’ve been standing here for a good five minutes. Mickey seems to notice Alejandro at the same time Ian remembers he’s standing at the entrance of his apartment, ready to intervene.

“You got a body guard?” Mickey asks, eyebrows raised, nodding his head towards Alejandro.

“I’m Alejandro, nice to meet you,” he calls from behind Ian. Mickey scoffs and shakes his head.

Ian turns and nods at Alejandro, silently telling him he’ll be fine. His dogs have started getting restless and the beers in hand heavy, so Ian walks into Mickey’s apartment.

“Finally,” Mickey mutters, taking the beer from Ian.

Mickey’s apartment is much like his own, tiny and bare. He didn’t bring much with him to New York and it seems neither did Mickey. The couch in front of the TV is old and dirty, stained with God knows what. Ian notices a framed picture above the TV, the only decoration in the room.  It’s of Mickey and Mandy, he realizes as he steps closer. True to the drawing in his note, Mickey filled three bowls with dog treats. They’re lined up by the couch, so the dogs can be close to them as they’re watching the game.     

“Delivery for Mickey Milkovich,” someone calls from outside. Ian hides his snicker as he recognizes Alejandro’s voice.

“The fuck?” Mickey says and then, “I didn’t order anything,” as he opens the door.

“Surprise. It’s me. Making sure you haven’t killed him yet,” Alejandro says. Ian’s slightly embarrassed. He imagines this is what having parents who actually give a damn feels like. 

“Fuck, he really is your body guard,” Mickey says, turning towards Ian.

Alejandro, unfazed by the comment, says, “Well, then, seeing as how you’re still alive, I’ll leave you to your date.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey says as Ian tells him rather forcefully that it’s not a date.

Alejandro, chastised, bows his head and leaves, retreating to Ian’s apartment. Ian’s not sure when the last time he stayed at his own house was, and he says as much to Mickey. 

“I should have known you were from Chicago, no New Yorker’s a Cubs fan,” Mickey tells him when they’re sitting on the couch, waiting for the game to start.

His dogs are at his feet, having finished eating. Ian’s surprised at how normal this feels. Turns out New York Mickey is nowhere near as bad as Chicago Mickey. He supposes New York Ian is better than Chicago Ian, too. New York Ian certainly _feels_ better than Chicago Ian did. Ian misses his family, sure, but being away from the South Side and all the problems that came with it is a freedom Ian is thankful for. He wonders if Mickey agrees. Even though it was a joke, Mickey was right, he is a changed man. He seems happier, freer; Ian wonders what happened in Chicago that pushed Mickey to finally leave. Just like with his previous question, he doesn’t ask.

It’s the seventh inning, the game is dragging on, and Ian and Mickey are a little more than drunk when Mickey answers Ian’s questions, unprovoked. 

“We were at the Alibi, celebrating,” Mickey rolls his eyes at the word, “Terry’s release from jail.  I was fed up with Terry and kinda drunk, so I came out.” Ian gawks, Mickey continues. “As you can imagine, it didn’t go very well. But Terry got his ass dragged back to prison. I stuck around for a couple weeks, but then I had to leave. I couldn’t stay there anymore.”

Ian knows the feeling. Feeling trapped is not the best experience. Ian could count on his family, but he imagines the only one who didn’t take Mickey’s news badly was Mandy.   

“And Mandy?” he asks, finally looking Mickey in the eye.

Right before Mickey can answer, the crowd cheers and Mickey and Ian both jump, having forgotten that the game was still going on. Though, they, too, start cheering when they realize that the Cubs had scored a home run, putting them in the lead.

“How ‘bout ‘nother beer,” Mickey slurs, the alcohol having caught up to him fully now that he’s standing.   

He picks up the beer box, and, finding it empty, frowns at it. Stumbling into the kitchen, he looks around for more alcohol. Mickey rummages through his cabinets and his frown deepens every time he picks up an empty bottle of liquor. He stands on his tippy toes to reach into the highest cabinet, but, realizing he’s too short, starts climbing onto the counter. Ian has the good sense to rush up behind him in case he falls. Mickey’s wearing socks, the counter-top is slippery, and he’s had more than his fair share of alcohol. As Mickey’s hand closes around a half full bottle of whiskey, his foot slips off the counter and he falls back into Ian’s arms. They stay like that for a couple seconds, Ian’s arms around Mickey’s waist, Mickey half off the counter with his head tipped backwards looking at Ian. Ian coughs, embarrassed, and Mickey abruptly slams both feet down and shoves Ian off. Unsatisfied with the results of his search for glasses, Mickey walks back to the couch and hands the bottle to Ian who takes a swig and passes it back.   

Mickey takes a giant gulp of whiskey before talking. “Couldn’t take Mandy with me. I left that house with nothing more than a couple changes of clothing and that picture,” he says, pointing to the framed photo of him and Mandy. “She’s not safe there. She’s planning on moving here with me as soon as she can.”

Ian, unable to come up with a good response, claps Mickey on the shoulder and takes the bottle from him.  They go back to watching the game after that, passing the whiskey bottle back and forth.

It’s the 15th inning (the game seems never-ending at this point) when it starts getting good. At the top of the inning, the Sox score two runs, making them be up by two. At the bottom, the Cubs have two outs, the bases are loaded, and everyone is hanging onto the edge of their seats. Up at bat is the Cubs’ newest player, an 18 year old kid fresh out of high school.

The pitcher, a seasoned veteran of the league, fixes the batter with a smug look. The first pitch leaves his hands at breakneck speed; the batter is barely able to react before the ball hits the catcher’s gloves with a loud smack. The second pitch is barely inside the strike range, so the batter doesn’t react, thinking it a ball. Two strikes and the batter is visibly rattled. The crowd starts cheering, as much for the Sox as for the Cubs, but he relaxes anyway.  

Mickey and Ian are so close to the edge of couch, they’re basically off of it. Their thighs are pressed together, their hands folded in front of their mouths, whispering “come on, come on” over and over.

The pitcher’s smug grin deepens—a fatal mistake—and he sets the ball flying. At the last possible second, the batter swings and he sends the ball sailing over the players’ heads.

When the ball makes contact, Ian and Mickey fall off the couch in their excitement. Out of fear of missing even a millisecond of the game, the stay on the floor, unmoving. They’re on top of each other, but neither seems to care.     

When the ball makes contact, the batter drops the bat and starts running.

When the ball makes contact, the men on the bases start sprinting towards home.

When the ball makes contact, the men in the outfield set off after the ball, hoping to catch it before it hits the ground.

Now, Mickey and Ian scramble back onto the couch, keeping their eyes on the TV.

Now, the guy on third base hits home. Now, the guy on second does—the game is tied.

When the last two guys run home—winning the Cubs the game by two points—Ian and Mickey jump off the couch, screaming and cheering, the dogs barking madly in support. Maybe it’s the excitement and happiness of the victory

Maybe it’s the amount of alcohol in their system (three times the legal limit)

Maybe it’s the fact that their barriers are down, that they’re in an apartment in NYC and not a rundown house in Chicago

But before they know it, they’re in each others’ arms, kissing. The people at the game have stopped cheering, and Ian and Mickey are now collapsed on the couch, still kissing. In a moment of lucidity, Ian pulls away. This is _Mickey Milkovich_ ; he is on Mickey Milkovich’s couch, kissing him. The Mickey Milkovich he knows doesn’t kiss people, doesn’t kiss _boys._ Ian wants to say something, maybe an apology, before Mickey comes to his senses and Ian is a goner. But Mickey, instead of pushing him away and telling him to get out, grabs Ian by his shirt and pulls him in to kiss him again.

 


End file.
